Dear Nasreen Aunty,

The first time I heard of you was when I was sitting with your one and only, Asfiya, on a wooden bench, our backs against the white wall, staring ahead— talking about you, in mid-February. Once in a while, I would sneak a side glance at Asfoo as she talked about you, and while there was a pain in her voice, her eyes had a cosmos of kindness and a smile crammed so permanently on her lips. Asfoo has one of the kindest faces I’ve ever seen. When we first talked of you, I didn’t know what you looked like, but I knew, even then, that your reflection in your daughter was as visible as the most radiant Dahlias on a tree. 

Your presence was profound, but your absence is reverberating. The blue chair in your garden sits still like it's mourning. The black cat that would weave your legs and nuzzle against them still visits. The trees that grew around you still flutter with the wind. How do you tell a cat that you’re not coming back? There is a gaping hole from where you left, and it consumes people in it because your existence stabilized a lot more lives than you realized. The ocean that you loved is finally calm, maybe because you’re near it now, but the land you’ve behind is emptier. You weren’t only the force of nature, Nasreen Aunty, you embodied nature— its resilience, its beauty, its luminous concept.

From everything that I have heard about you, I wish I had known you. The odds are all in my favour when I say I know you would’ve held me back for dinner and told me funny stories about Asfoo. What a delight it was for me to hear about the bond you curated and maintained with your children. Some people spend their whole lives loving others and it never leaves them distraught because they have it in abundance. Your love, Nasreen Aunty, was so abundant and sound that it still caresses everyone ever-so-gently in this harsh world. “Baarish,” they would all scream, sigh, and ponder the happiness that would cocoon you when rainwater would fall on the ground. And, in your absence, the tenderness of your memories falls like rain on the family you’ve left behind, and it causes them happiness just like rain did to you.

You know, Nasreen Aunty, what my biggest fear is? When I walk out of a room, I worry that people behind me are saying things that are much different to how they act toward me. Stories from different people, when kept on top of each, almost never align. But, from a room with just your daughter to a room full of most people you knew in your life, everyone had the same words humming on their lips— “Nasreen was a fighter. Woh aik fighter thi.”

I have heard tales of your strength. I have heard the legends of your toughness. I have learned about your ardour for keeping your secrets tucked carefully inside your heart— veiled from those closest to you. I wonder why God gives his kindest soldiers the hardest tests to pass. Many give up, some barely make it, but you fought and you won, and I hope you knew how proud everyone was of you. But, despite that, I wish you didn’t have to spend your life being so strong, so resilient. It gets exhausting. I wish you had more time to channel the child in you. 

“Hamein itna danti thi,” your niece would tell me. Those few years, back in the day when your marriage was called off, everyone was terrified of you. Were you hurting and nursing your aching heart alone? I wish you didn’t have to do it alone. Growing up without a mother must have been hard, and then to lose a man you saw a future with sounds painful. But, you’re a fighter. And, so you fought. You know how God doesn’t burden one more than they can survive? That’s what happened when stars aligned to make way for your happiness. People fall in love every day. But many few stay in love for two decades.  It took 20 years, but you married your soul mate. I am glad Asfiya’s father waited for you. Out of all the love stories I’ve heard, I promise you this one has become my favourite. 

Things changed once you got married. The doom lifted. Colours returned. You were happy. Asfoo would reminisce all the shopping trips you made together. And all the jewellery you would buy for her and for yourself. The conspicuousness of your life was painted by the colours you grabbed and instilled. The elderlies in your family still revel the memories of when you had Hadi, and then Asfoo. They say it was yet another complication, and possibly a heartbreak that was awaiting you, but God gave you two beautiful children. Nasreen aunty, I hope you know that despite living your life wishing Asfoo was like you, she is truly the most like you. She embodies the love you carried in your heart. And her eyes crinkle the same ways yours did when she smiles. And, when we were admiring the biggest collection of jhumkees you own,  she showed me all the jewellery she has started wearing now and how if you were here, it would have made you so happy. And, I haven’t met Hadi, but he embodies your bravery and your strength. And I can tell that your children and your husband try to remember you by mirroring your kindness because their sadness is a hunger, devouring anything that could rouse their mood or move their emotional needle, buried at zero. But it’s covert and functional. Your memories are: quiet. Serene. Painful. Colourful. It keeps them going.

Qadir uncle’s love for you is one of the purest emotions left in the universe. Asfoo gets a little sad sometimes. She thinks you never really had a grasp on how much you mean to him. But, your cousin says Qadir uncle don’t dress up now. He wears his old slippers because you’re not here to take out his clothes and shoes. You kept him together. And, without you, he is lost. Everyone, in some way or the other, is. Meeting your family was a delight. And, it is because everyone talked of you with so much fondness that even while grieving, we were celebrating your life. Sharing laughter, stories, and jokes while passing photos around the table. Your death reflects your life, and as much as it has left the world vacant, it still gives everyone a reason to feel joy. 

Buried amongst many other things, I came across a white book with glittery tape and flamboyant stickers. Your name was written in large fonts on the front page next to “Jannat Ki Tayyari.” The book seemed so joyous, but it has a detailed plan on how you wanted to be buried. This book is the first thing through which I feel a direct connection with you because I’m not told, I could see, I could read. Death is scary. Morbid even. But, perhaps, you never saw it that way. Even though, with fondness and in reminiscence, I am told that you would often think you’re about to depart this life at a minor inconvenience. But, it is almost like you would never forget that we are temporary, that life is temporary. When Asfoo told me how she had to watch you through computer screens barely unable to breathe, and how she had to make a decision for the doctors to pull the plug, I wanted to give her the biggest hug. No daughter deserves to be so strong as to see her mother slip right her fingers. But, at the end of the day, she is your daughter — strong, gallant, resolute. 

Your Jai Namaz, your long tasbeeh, and your pen Quran are all sitting still after you left. We found leaflets of duas from between a random assortment of things you left behind. Nasreen aunty, some people are unidimensional, but your life was so multi-faceted that it was an honour beyond belief that I could get to know you after you weren’t here. There is always a threat that once a person is gone, they can’t defend themselves from what people had to say. But everything anybody said about you reflected how monumental your existence was. In the quiet desolation of ourselves — the motley crew of friends and family you collected and cultivated — some don’t know where to go or why. But, it’s clear to me now that we came together and will keep coming together to celebrate your life. What an achievement it is to surpass death but still have people talk about your life more than your death. You worried about Asfoo a lot, but I love her. We all do. So, you rest in peace now. Lie down. I hope there are trees and a black cat and a blue chair around you. I hope it rains every day where you are. I hope you’re still wearing your jhumkees and your karas. I hope you’re happy.

Rest in power, Nasreen Aunty.

Fakhat,
Eesha.